Hail, Faust
by Stelotier
Summary: Defeated by a faceless enemy, Oliver wakes up at STAR Labs after a lengthy coma to learn his days of being a hero are all but over. But that's only the beginning of Ollie's troubles, as Barry's Zoom problem, magic, a court of conspiracies, a son he never knew about, and a growing relationship with a certain doctor vie for what's left of his soul. Super AU. Kind of a crack pairing.
1. Prologue

**Hail, Faust**

* * *

"I am part of that power which eternally wills evil and eternally works good."

* * *

Prologue

* * *

The world exploded in technicolor.

Sounds, sights, smells, they all came rushing back to him. But it wasn't right. The colors were too bright, the smells too vivid, the sounds painful: a deep, steady, ear-piercing gonging noise kept beating at his head. He tried to move, but he couldn't feel his limbs, and try as he might, he remained lying, rooted. He only seemed to have control of his wandering eyes.

They weren't much help, either. Everything was so vivid they blurred into a kaleidoscopic mess of whites and light greens. It was all much too beautiful to bear, so he closed his eyes, and sank back into the welcoming darkness.

Until he heard a click, and then the soft melody of some long, nearly-forgotten tune broadcasted out, humming into one ear and out of the other, and accompanied by footsteps. Two pairs, he was able to tell. A hunter never forgot these things, no matter how dulled their senses. Soon, voices confirmed his instincts were right:

"How do you know he likes...?" one of them began, a woman's, vaguely familiar, and quiet next to the music and that infernal beeping noise.

Another voice responded, soprano, and male. "Felicity told..." A spark of recognition: blonde hair, glasses, cheery. But then it slipped away; he couldn't place a face to it. "...got better taste than Barry."

Barry. A name so familiar, so close but so distant.

Suddenly, the world righted itself, and though still a little blurred, he felt as if human again. The sounds were crisp, no longer dull or pounding, and the beeping turned from terrifying to mundane, medical. His head flopped over to the side and found a monitor staring back at him where the beeping came from, but his view of exactly what was on the monitor was blocked, as a slim figure stepped in the way and reached out over him. She was adjusting something behind him, and he just wanted her out of the way, so he grunted.

Or, at least, he tried. His grunt came out more like a weak moan that hadn't been said so much as slid out of his mouth.

But it was enough to surprise the figure in front of him. She jumped and gasped, and yelled for someone before crouching down to his level and shining a light in his eyes. Too bright, he flinched away, and that seemed to please her.

"Hello?" she asked. "Hello? Can you tell me your name?"

He tried to speak, but felt as though his throat was closing upon itself. "Water," he mumbled incoherently.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"

"Water," he enunciated more clearly this time; still a mumble, but now coherent. Jumping up, the woman rushed away, and in moments, was back with and tall glass that she tipped toward his mouth, and he gulped the life-giving water inside down greedily. When he had enough, he pulled away and took a long, hard look at the woman. She had chestnut brown hair, and nearly equally brown eyes, pale skin, and wore pink lipstick. He recognized the face and thought of the cold. What was her name again? Frost? Along with the water, she had brought another familiar face, with bronze skin and easygoing smile on his lips, though he couldn't place the face to a name.

"Now, can you tell me your name?" the woman asked soberly.

That was easy. He was a hunter, one with the land, one with the animals, one with the bow, one with the arrow. "Queen," he croaked. "Oliver Queen."

"Good, Mr. Queen," she replied, and her face broke out into a tentatively relieved smile. "Do you remember me?"

It was Frost, but it wasn't. Something cold. Dr. Ice? No, that was stupid. Doctor... "Snow."

"Good, you remember," she nodded. "Now, Mr. Queen, do you know where you are, why you're here?"

He tried to think back, but all he could remember was fire, pain, and blood. Too much blood.

"I—I can't remember," he whispered, shaking his head.

Doctor Snow nodded, as if she had expected the possibility. "Don't worry, it's nothing to be ashamed of. You... you were in an accident. A bombing in Star City. It put... you've been in a coma."

"For how long?" he breathed out, alarmed, and the beeping became quicker and more furious.

Doctor Snow raised out a hand and placed it on his shoulder. "I need you to calm down, Mr. Queen, before I can tell you," she said with a pointed look. He stared back at her and, swallowing, nodded as he attempted to regain control of himself. With some effort, he eventually did, and turned back to face her.

"How long?" he repeated, this time calmer, more assured of himself.

The brunette paused and looked upon him pityingly: "Mr. Queen, it's been a very long time..."

" _How long_?" he repeated, a little more forcefully. The doctor, in turn, looked very uncomfortable and swallowed before she spoke:

"Twenty-one months."

* * *

When they started rehabilitation, Oliver fell out of bed, and couldn't even muster the strength to crawl. It served as a reminder to everyone around him that he wasn't Barry; when The Flash had awoken from his coma, he sped out of his room in a matter of minutes. It would take Oliver months before he could walk to the door. He had wasted away in his silent slumber, and became disturbingly thin; his legs could no longer support his weight, and his arms... his arms were another story entirely.

"You were in an explosion," Doctor Snow had said upon awakening, when he couldn't move anything but his head. Around them stood two others: Barry, having dropped everything and sped to S.T.A.R. Labs the moment he heard Oliver had come to; and his physicist sidekick, Cisco Ramon. Both looked on with pensive expressions:

"You took 63 pieces of metallic shrapnel from a C4 detonation in Star City," Doctor Snow continued, "and suffered numerous second and third-degree burns on your torso and arms... We found you half-dead..." she trailed off, as a troubled look clouded over her eyes. But as quick as it came, it went, and she was back to the normal, expressionless, Doctor Snow: "Fortunately, I was able to get most of the shrapnel out and you've been administered skingrafts for your burns. You're in no danger of the long-term damage from the shrapnel and I'd say you've taken very well to the grafts."

She paused. Oliver didn't like that pause.

"What's wrong?" he croaked out, even while knowing he wouldn't like the answer.

"Now comes the bad part," she replied softly.

Oliver wheezed out a laugh that nearly shattered his rib cage. " _That_ was the good part?" somewhere behind the brunette doctor, he could hear Barry let out a short, bitter chuckle. Doctor Snow, however, gave him a wry smile and a nod:

"Unfortunately, yes."

Oliver breathed out. He loved bad news. "Well... don't keep us waiting."

"It's your arm..."

"My arm?" Oliver said; he couldn't feel anything in his extremeties, much less his arms, so he hadn't thought much of them.

The Doctor seemed to the steel herself. "Your left arm, to be specific," she said clinically. "The detonation happened in an old building, and they're not exactly known for being... sanitary. Um, one of the burns on your left arm became infected long before we could see you."

Panic. Fear. The medical beeping sound to his right once again rose in tempo.

"By the time you came to us," she said, trying to sound detached, but failing miserably with that guilty expression, "the only choice to keep the infection from spreading... was to amputate."

The beeping noise rose to a crescendo, and seemingly alongside it, Oliver lost the ability to breathe. Air came in, but he couldn't choke it down, and began gagging and heaving, as his limbs suddenly came alive and thrashed out at random. In a rush, all three came over to him and held him down:

"Calm down, Oliver!" someone shouted, but Oliver couldn't tell who anymore; all that mattered was that his arm, his life, was now gone.

"How the _hell_ is a coma patient so strong!?" yelled someone else, holding down his thrashing right arm, galvanized into action, perhaps, by the thought of losing its opposite.

But Doctor Snow's voice cut through all the noise. "Calm down, Mr. Queen, and focus on me. You're okay. You're alive, and you're okay."

Yes, he was alive. But was he okay? Somehow, Oliver doubted it, though it was enough to calm him. The world returned to normal, and Oliver made out Barry on his left and Cisco on his right, having helped Doctor Snow hold him down during his little episode. Barry, of course, was grinning:

"There's the Oliver Queen I know," he said merrily, "all he ever needs is a pretty woman to tell him everything's alright."

Cisco laughed while Doctor Snow shot him an only half-reproachful glare.

"But, Oliver," the doctor said, deigning to use his given name for the first time that day, "you know what this means, right?"

Oliver nodded, steeling himself as he always did for the worst case scenario. "I'll never hold a bow properly again," he said, watching each of their faces. Barry had a look of understanding, as he always did; Cisco of pity; and Doctor Snow, her expression was, unsurprisingly, unreadable:

"Yes," she agreed grimly, "you can't be The Arrow, anymore."

* * *

 **General Housekeeping:** I was challenged by a friend to write a dead serious story with a super crack pairing, particularly in a fandom like the Arrowverse, which seems laden mostly with tepid and mostly tedious romance fics. So, no you didn't read the character portion of the summary wrong, this is an Ollie/Caitlin fic, and it will include elements from Batman, Green Lantern, Hellblazer, and The Sandman. You don't particularly need to know any of these comics/graphic novels in detail to read this, however.

Things to know going forward:

\- This fic follows a bit of a wonky timeline. Technically, it takes place after S3 of Arrow and prior to S2 of The Flash, but with a much longer layover between the two. I think it's about six months after the Reverse Flash stuff that S2 starts, but obviously, it's closer to two years in this fic, to account for Ollie's coma. There will also be an explanation for why he's in Central City instead of Star City, but it'll be laid out in the coming chapters.

\- John Constantine fans rejoice, you'll get to see a lot of him in this fic. Maybe even a cheeky Hal Jordan here and there.

\- Most of Season 3 of Arrow is canon to this fic, except for the last few episodes, which will be explained in the coming chapters. This will not follow Season 4 at all, though it will follow Season 2 of The Flash (except, for the beginning with Barry working alone, Cisco with the police department, Caitlin working at Mercury Labs; and, of course, the Arrow/Flash crossover stuff).

\- Oliver losing his arm is a reference to Frank Miller's The Dark Knight Returns, in which it's implied Superman rips off Ollie's arm when he continues to engage in vigilante activities as the Green Arrow, after the government outlaws it, and the members of the Justice League agree to stop their vigilantism. Doesn't stop him and Batman, despite both being old and crippled, from kicking the shit out of a practically ageless Superman near the end of TDKR.

\- This is rated M more for violent content than sexual content. Given all the Vertigo characters that will appear in this fic, it's necessary for it to have a much darker tone than either Arrow or The Flash.

That should be it with the notes. Thanks for reading!


	2. The Phantom

**Hail, Faust**

* * *

1\. The Phantom

* * *

April 23, 2017

Central City, STAR Labs

* * *

He drifted in and out of consciousness for the first week afterward. It took Oliver two full weeks after awakening to regain full lucidity, at which point, Barry had the bright idea to give him Dr. Wells's old, neglected wheel chair. Being The Flash made what would have been a struggle from bed to chair a half-millisecond breeze, and soon, Ollie had left the domain of the bed and ventured out into the wide, bright world of STAR Labs:

"Sorry we can't take you outside," Cisco said on the fifth day Oliver was in the chair, being the one with the unenviable duty of pushing Oliver around until he regained use of his right arm, "but I think if anyone saw you like this, the press would be here in fifteen trying to kick down the doors."

Oliver snorted.

"...Actually, knowing our security, they'd probably just walk right in... I really have to get on updating that," Cisco continued, more to himself than for Oliver's benefit. "Also, sorry about giving you the supervillain chair."

"A time-traveling, mass-murderer, I'm in excellent company," Oliver shot back with a smile.

"Yeah, well things aren't as simple as they are in Star City," Cisco murmured back petulantly.

Oliver quirked a brow. "Did you forget we were fighting an immortal assassin? Or the reason that I'm in this chair?"

"One, _you_ don't even remember what happened to you, so we have no idea what reason you're in this chair for. And, two, yeah, he might have been an assassin, but could he run at Mach 2?" Cisco waggled his eyebrows. Oliver, of course, had no answer, so Cisco grinned. "See? We win. Star City's filled with a bunch of brooding pansies."

"Right," Oliver agreed, unable to keep a smile of his own off his lips. "Speaking of Mach 2, where's Barry?"

"You know what? He's actually at his day job for once. Things have been quiet for a while aside from the occasional mugging or robbery; I guess he scared them all off," Cisco said quickly, and then promptly cringed. "Oh, crap. I didn't mean it like that, Ollie."

Oliver exhaled deeply through his nose. "Don't worry about it, Cisco. I'm becoming used to the idea of myself on the sidelines."

An awkward silence followed, one neither of the two was sure how exactly to break.

"So..." Cisco tried to clear the air, "how are your sessions with Caitlin?"

Oliver gazed upward, thoughtfully. "They're... good. I mean, I can't complain. She's a bit... frostier than I remember, though. Which is saying something."

"That's Caitlin for you, especially since, you know..."

"Especially since, you know, what?" Oliver repeated, interest piqued by Cisco's now-suddenly coy nature.

"Since Ronnie."

A blonde brow quirked. "The human flamethrower who helped Barry and I take down Wells?"

"Yeah, you know, after what happened," Cisco said, before he noticed Oliver's blank expression. "Wait. You don't know?" he asked. "About the black hole?"

"I heard about it. I was busy with something in Star City at the time," Oliver said too quickly, but Cisco didn't notice:

Cisco chuckled mirthlessly. "And here I thought you were being tactful by not mentioning it."

"Nope," said Oliver, "just oblivious. What happened?"

"Well, Ronnie helped Barry close the hole, but... he died in the process. And this was only moments after him and Cait finally tied the knot. Cait closed herself off, and Barry... you know how Barry is: blamed himself for it, for the longest time."

Oliver blinked. "Shit."

Maybe things weren't as rosy in Central City as he initially thought.

"I know, right? He's dead, he's-not-dead-but-a-homeless-schizophrenic, he's back but as a human torch, and he's gone again. Could you blame her for being a little cold after all that?"

"Not really," Oliver said. "Well, I'll make sure to be tactful; on purpose, this time."

"And by tactful, you mean 'avoid the subject entirely'?"

"Great minds think alike."

Both men laughed, but it felt far more somber than joyful. Cisco wheeled Oliver around for a little while, settling into a comfortable silence, until a shrill beeping noise came from the watch Cisco generally kept on a wrist:

"Ah, crap," he exclaimed, checking his watch. "We're late for your physical therapy session."

"Again?"

"Yes, _again_ ," the physicist threw him a pointed "shut-up" look, "and Caitlin'll kill us if we're late again."

" _Us_? I have no choice; I'm just the guy being pushed around by you," Oliver pointed out.

"Good point, but I'm going to choose to ignore it in favor of sharing the blame," Cisco quipped, flashing Oliver another megawatt smile as he pushed The Arrow-turned-invalid forward at a pace far too quick to be considered safe. By the time they reached the cortex, Cisco was nearly in a dead sprint and nearly bowled over an oblivious Dr. Snow with Oliver, which of course, was enough to earn her ire:

"Cisco, what on _earth_ are you doing!?" she half-shrieked, very adeptly dodging the runaway wheelchair for a woman in heels.

"Trying not to be late," Cisco deadpanned, stopping Oliver before he crashed into Barry's suit set-up at the other end of the room.

Caitlin huffed, and perched her hands on her hips. "Well, you're already late, anyway, so why bother?"

"Calm down, Caitlin," Cisco said, "and, wait a minute, are you even qualified to be giving someone physical therapy?"

Dr. Snow blushed. "I've... I've been reading," she harrumphed quickly, as though that explained everything.

Cisco sent Oliver a sideways look. "Oh. Well, _that's_ reassuring."

"No one asked your opinion, Cisco," growled Caitlin, as she turned to the resident invalid. "Oliver, are you ready for today's session? We'll be working getting you to move your toes."

"As I'll ever be, I guess," Oliver replied. Caitlin looked at him expectantly and Oliver wasn't entirely sure what she wanted him to say, so he flailed for something else. "You're looking nice today," he finished, indicating her ensemble of a white blouse, black pencil skirt and lab coat. Cisco's sideways look morphed into an impish grin, as if to ask: _are you so bad at socializing that your only experience with women is hitting on them?_

"Already?" he asked; Oliver pretended not to know what he was talking about.

The good doctor, however, was unimpressed. "Flattery may work on Felicity, Mr. Queen, but you'll find no such luxury with me. Now, let's get moving!"

So she said, but Oliver was perceptive enough to see the smile tugging at her lips.

* * *

Oliver received his first visitor six days after that.

Others had come. Iris West and her father, Joe, had been by several times to both consult with Barry about a case and look conflicted as to whether they should send Oliver pitying or judgmental looks, but they hardly counted. This was the first visit from someone from his group of former associates, and the one he wanted to see the most out of all of them.

It happened when Barry and Caitlin were arguing over which particular prosthetic Oliver should wear. The good doctor, in her usual sensible way, suggested a prosthetic hand would be the best way to go, as it was practical and would invite the least scrutiny out in public. And Barry, as Oliver expected of him, was quite partial to the prosthetic hook.

He waved the the plastic forearm around above his head as though it were a dagger, keeping it away from Dr. Snow. "Come on, Caitlin! Oliver Queen, the pirate! I can see it right now," he paused dramatically and waved a hand out in front of him, as if envisioning the future. "Maybe grow out that beard a bit, wear an eyepatch, too?"

"Right," sniped Caitlin, with a shake of her head as she collapsed her chair at the main set-up of computers, "because the best way to go about a 'normal' life is running around with an _eyepatch_ and a _hook_. Why don't you just cut off a leg and give him a wooden stump, too?"

Oliver looked on, amused.

"Cut off whose what-now?" Cisco's voice came from the doorway as he briskly sped into the cortex.

"Barry is trying his absolute best to convince Oliver here to make poor life choices," said Caitlin, crossing her arms.

Barry did a rather exaggerated double-take. " _Poor life choices_? There's nothing poor about _style_." Caitlin gave Barry a flat look and Cisco remained looking confused, Oliver took pity and decided to bring him up to speed:

"Prosthetic: Hand or hook?" he explained over the other two to Cisco as briefly as possible.

The self-identified super-geek barked out a laugh. "Is this even a question? The hook, _obviously_."

Caitlin crossed her arms. "Of course _you_ would want the hook."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Cisco said, mock-hurt.

The three then devolved into an argument about hooks and hands and Oliver observed them quietly, somewhat jealous of their camaraderie. He hadn't left Star City on the best of terms with the members of his team: in fact, he was sure that he had alienated every one of them completely before the accident that had landed him in a coma for nearly two years. Suffice it to say, the level of trust and companionship shared between these three had long since eroded from his own life; it hadn't been like this since Team Arrow consisted of just him, Diggle, and Felicity.

Diggle and Felicity. Oliver briefly wondered where they were and what they were doing. A part of him wondered why they hadn't come to visit, but then he remembered: John had never forgiven him for using his family as bait for Ra's al Ghul, and his relationship with Felicity remained in limbo, unspoken of as Oliver studiously avoided her over the months leading to whatever it was that had landed him here minus an arm.

Realizing he had indulged his reverie for two long, Oliver looked up, only to find the three most consistent members of "Team Flash" still debating the merits of a metal hook versus a plastic hand.

"Gotta say, Dr. Snow," he cut over the arguing trio, "I kind of like the hook, too."

Barry grinned at a put-out Caitlin. "It looks like you've been outvoted, Cait."

"So it seems," she replied wearily. "Boys," she muttered. "Well come on then, Oliver, let's get you fitted with your... _hook_." Oliver smiled as the doctor walked up to him, her heels clicking rapidly against the metallic floor of the cortex. She slid around his chair and began pushing it forward toward the makeshift medical bay, usually only used to treat Barry after one of his late-night escapades, but more recently Oliver's permanent address, as well.

Before Caitlin could get very far, however, a deep _brrring_ came from one of the computer displays, stopping all four dead in their tracks. Cisco rushed over to the monitors and Barry shuffled up behind him with a determined look:

"What is it, Cisco?" he asked. "Another metahuman?"

"Nope," replied Cisco, "just the doorbell. Apparently we've got a visitor."

Caitlin's brows furrowed. "I don't remember anyone saying they were coming; who is it?"

"That's what I'm checking right now," said Cisco as he tapped at the keyboard, and then looked up at the former Star City vigilante. "It's... um... Oliver, I think it's your sister."

Had he been able to, Oliver would have rocketed out of his chair and charged out of STAR Labs to greet his sister, but given the way things were, he had to content himself with choking out: "Thea?" he exchanged looks with Caitlin, who nodded resolutely:

"I phoned her once you regained full lucidity," she explained, "but I hadn't expected her to come immediately."

Oliver smiled. "You don't know Speedy, then," he said, as the doctor pushed his chair over to the computers, where Cisco had brought up a camera display of the person at the door.

She looked nearly the same as when he had left her. Maybe a little more gaunt, with bags under her eyes, and she was sporting a delicate scar over her right eyebrow he hadn't seen before, but it was undoubtedly Thea Queen, Oliver's beloved little sister.

"Yeah," said Barry, nodding, "that's Thea alright."

"Let her in. _Let her in_ ," Oliver said, and then repeated more forcefully when no one reacted. Barry made to go let her in, but Cisco raised up a hand:

"I think you should stay, Barry," he said quickly, "you know what it's like meeting family after being out of commission for so long. I'll go get her."

Something seemed to pass between the two, an unspoken conversation that Oliver wasn't privy to. He looked over to Caitlin and saw her wearing an understanding expression as well, and, not for the first time, Oliver felt distinctly like an outsider. Barry collapsed into one of the chairs next to Oliver's wheelchair and Dr. Snow into the other, as Cisco hurried out of the cortex.

"Thea," murmured Oliver. "It feels like only days ago that I last saw her."

"That's what we need to talk to you about," Barry said softly.

Oliver squinted. "What do you mean? She's my sister, and I want to see her. Can't be simpler than that."

"We know that," said Caitlin, placing a hand on his knee as she leaned in, "but you have to realize that while it might only feel like a few days since you last saw her, it's been nearly _two years_ for her."

"She took your accident really hard," Barry continued for the doctor, "practically up and moved to Central City for the first few months. Wouldn't sleep, barely ate... it took both Felicity and Laurel coming down here to knock some sense into her and get her back to Star."

"In short: she blames herself for what happened to you," Caitlin summarized.

"What?" Oliver asked, alarmed. "That's ridiculous. She _knows_ we live dangerous lives."

Dr. Snow smiled grimly. "I've heard about some of what happened on the island, Oliver: you, of all people, should know that guilt isn't rational."

There was something Oliver could understand. Guilt was part and parcel of being The Arrow. Barry gained his speed through a particle accelerator explosion, but Oliver had gained his strength through five years of living like a beast, scrounging and killing until his strength was nearly unmatched. No one got out of a situation like that without carrying demons out with them, and guilt was his: his father, Slade, Shado, Akio... the list could go on forever, emotional wounds to match the numerous physical ones that had laid him low.

"That, Dr. Snow," he said wryly, "is something I understand all-too-well."

The doctor's smile returned and she softly patted his knee, before standing up. "I should go. Wouldn't be sporting of us to intrude on a family moment," she waved Barry along as well, who, obediently, stood up, nodded to Oliver, and then followed Caitlin to the medical bay, leaving Oliver alone to his turbulent thoughts.

Or, at least, they did until Oliver heard the tremulous voice:

"Ollie?"

Oliver turned around, and put the plastered the brightest smile he could muster on his lips as he spoke: "Speedy!"

* * *

Thea stayed for a few days afterward, sitting in on Barry's nighttime escapades and shooting the breeze with Oliver, Caitlin, and Cisco at the Lab. She looked unwell, gaunt and thin, but Oliver knew better than to needle her about it; Thea, like her brother, reacted very poorly to the phrase 'are you okay?'. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that she was running from something, and if not running from it, was already crushed under its heel.

But, again, he ignored his gut feeling. If anything was wrong, Thea would tell him, surely.

In the end, his sister's sabbatical ended on an anticlimactic note: Thea didn't speak much about herself, opting instead to ask Oliver how he felt; Caitlin continued to help Oliver through physical therapy, with limited success; and there was even a distinct lack of supervillains to catch, the only dangers that threatened Central City that week were a couple of purse-snatchers and the occasional homeless man urinating where he shouldn't be.

Eventually, Thea left, and Oliver continued to get accustomed to his new normal. In a week, he got his fingers fully functional, in two, he could move his arms. Unfortunately, that left him with a new, uncomfortable sensation:

"Pain," he told Caitlin clinically, as she, Barry, and Cisco watched him clench his right fist, having set up a small table in the corner of the room that housed Barry's treadmill.

"When you clench your fist?" she asked, holding his right hand in her own, inspecting it for any obvious signs of inflammation or soreness.

"Not that hand. The other one," Oliver said as Caitlin let go of his right hand and gave him searching look, and he winced at the prickling feeling. He looked down at his left arm, ending in a stump some eleven inches too early, but he could feel the arm as if it was still attached, down to his fingertips. Caitlin waved her hand over where his own amputated one should have been on that table, and Oliver could have sworn that he felt the sensation of her touching his fingers.

Barry frowned. "The other one? But the other one is-"

"Gone. I know," replied Oliver tonelessly. Barry sent him a look that Oliver couldn't quite decipher, but he didn't get much time to ponder it, as Caitlin began speaking:

"That's not entirely surprising, Oliver," she smiled reassuringly. "Does it feel like pins and needles?"

"Yeah, it does," Oliver sighed, lifting up the bandaged stump that was his left arm, "I've seen this before. Russia. Knew a guy who lost a leg to an IED outside of Kabul during the occupation. Always told me he could still feel it, even years later."

The doctor nodded. "That's more or less correct; what you're feeling is a phantom pain, usually a psychosomatic reaction to losing a limb. It's called a 'phantom limb'. Your brain will sometimes forget that it's missing an arm, because it's so used to having it, so you'll get phantom sensations of it moving with rest of your body. Unfortunately, these sensations are usually painful."

"Is there... I dunno, a cure, or something? To make it stop?" Cisco asked, looking as though he felt foolish for asking the question.

Caitlin shook her head. "Like I said, it's psychosomatic. Meaning there isn't actually anything wrong with you, Oliver. I wish there was a better way to phrase this, but... it's all in your head," she sighed, and then reached across the table they sat at and patted his hand. "Usually, the sensations should diminish over time, as you get more and more used to life without that arm. Your Russian friend was an exception, not the rule."

"Some luck," Barry said sourly.

Oliver didn't say anything, and Barry noticed. He turned to the former Star City vigilante and crossed his arms, in what he apparently thought was an intimidating manner. It nearly made Oliver laugh. Barry was many things: a brilliant forensic scientist, an immensely capable hero, and above all, a good man. But intimidating? Not exactly high on that list.

"What?" he asked conversationally.

"Can I talk to you, Ollie?" Barry asked, sending a sideways glance to Caitlin and Cisco. "In private?"

Suddenly, there was a tension in the room. Cisco and Caitlin picked up on it easily; Barry and Oliver stared each other down, but Oliver wasn't quite sure why they did. For all intents and purposes, one minute they were having a normal conversation, and the next, Barry was attempting put on his stern face.

Cisco, ever the smart one, exhaled through his nose. "I can tell when I'm not wanted," he said, throwing up his arms in mock exasperation, and scurried out of the room. Caitlin, however, was a bit tougher to convince:

"Barry," she entreated, "I'm trying to help a patient right now. And whether he's a personal friend of ours or not, I can't have you interrupt that. You can talk to him after."

"No," said Barry. "I think we'll talk now."

"Barry," the doctor started in her sternest voice, only to be interrupted:

"It's fine," said Oliver. "It's just a chat. I don't mind."

Caitlin squinted at him, a questioning glint in her gaze, to which Ollie responded with slightest tilt of his head, as if to reassure her it was okay for her to leave. Once sufficiently assured, Caitlin stood up as regally as possible, and calmly followed in Cisco's wake, though she couldn't seem to resist glancing back at the two, rigid as they were. When the door shut, Barry immediately pounced:

"What's wrong with you?" he interrogated.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "A few things, actually," he weakly flailed his stump arm around on the table.

"Not that, your reaction to it," Barry replied, a stern look on his face that he must have copied from his adoptive father.

"My reaction?" Oliver repeated, confused.

"Or, more precisely," Barry continued, "your _non-reaction_."

"What?"

"You don't eat, you barely speak, all I ever catch you doing is staring blankly at walls. You're like a ghost, or a phantom," Barry said. "Caitlin's trying to help, but she's worried about you. She talked to me yesterday: thinks the accident has changed your personality, irrevocably. She doesn't know for sure, though..."

"No one ever really knows," Oliver quipped. "It's on purpose. You know, good for the mystique."

"Shut up and let me finish," Barry snapped.

"Okay..." Oliver murmured, waiting for Barry to finish.

"Thea thinks so, too. You barely spoke to her when she came. And you knew she was in pain, but you didn't try to help her. Why?"

"I thought-" Oliver started, but Barry was already on a roll.

"You've woken up, and it's like you've been replaced with a robot. No expression, no grief, not even that much happiness when you saw your sister. She thinks you haven't forgiven her for not being there when the building collapsed."

"And what do you think?" Oliver asked slowly.

"What _I_ think? I think you're just being Oliver Queen, brooding asshole extraordinaire," Barry said; Oliver couldn't help but laugh, and even The Flash cracked a smile, though he quickly covered it up. "And you're sometimes so caught up in that labyrinth of a mind of yours, that you forget there are others around you. But, just, give us a sign, Ollie. Something telling us you're still in there."

"What do you want me to say, Barry?" Oliver asked. "Do you want me to rage and cry because this happened to me?"

Barry remained silent, a curious role-reversal for the two.

"You know that's not me. You know that's not who I am. It's a good thing."

Barry chuckled and shook his head. "What does that even mean? Just some macho Rambo chest-pounding about how you can take it?"

"No, it's not chest-pounding," said Oliver. "Life is about the wounds. You carry them with you, and take more and more of them, until one day, you can't take another. That's the day you die. Sure, I can't do anything like I used to. I couldn't save a kitten from a tree. But the pain, that's a good thing. It means I'm still alive. And that's nothing to cry about."

Barry stared at him hard for a very long time. Then he laughed:

"That made absolutely no sense," he said through laughter. "But it's _definitely_ something you would say."

Oliver smirked back. "So. Am I back, or am I still a robot?"

"Caitlin!" Barry called out of the room.

"Yeah?" came the inevitable response.

"He's all yours."

Caitlin came back into the room with an expression of nervous anticipation. "I trust you didn't break anything?"

"We came to an understanding," Barry said, before pausing. "Wait. Did you expect me to fight a guy in a wheelchair?" he asked, as though offended Caitlin could even think of him that way.

"You know I'd still win, Allen," Oliver smiled devilishly, the first real smile he'd given since waking up.

"Is that a challenge?" Barry retorted.

"Maybe," Oliver offered mischievously.

"Oh, no, you don't!" said Caitlin, running up to Barry, again, with surprising speed for a woman in heels, and began forcibly pushing him out of the room. "There will be no challenging of any kind in here on my watch! Shoo, Barry, _shoo_!"

Once she had pushed the laughing Barry out of the room, she turned back to Oliver with an uncharacteristically bright smile:

"So, Mr. Queen, shall we get back to work?"

* * *

Once Oliver was well enough to leave the relative safety of STAR Labs, Barry quickly offered Oliver a room at his foster father's home, much to said foster father's dismay. Joe West's opinion of Oliver Queen might have been higher ever since that night he helped save Barry from himself, and he might have pitied the abominable state the former billionaire had ended up in due to his nighttime activities, but it was never enough to engender any real goodwill for the man.

At the end of the day, Joe West was real police. He may have saved Barry and Star City over and over again, but Oliver Queen had dropped enough bodies to classify himself as a serial killer in most, if not all, of the fifty states. And while Barry could look past that, because he had a good heart, Joe couldn't. So, any reception Oliver would have received, would have been cold, at best.

Iris, of course, was absolutely in love with the idea.

"Though," noted Barry later, somewhat sourly, "she seemed more in love with you than with the idea."

Oliver, to his credit, remained silent, though that was more out of not knowing how to proceed, rather than due to any politeness.

But, despite a spirited debate from Barry, the list was narrowed down to Oliver living with Caitlin or Cisco. While Cisco was capable of some great things on his best days, he really wasn't equipped to be taking care of a recovering coma patient. So, really, the only sensible option was Caitlin, who was responsible for Oliver's day-to-day movement exercises and would know what to do if anything went wrong, which was more than enough to combat any unseemliness of the two living together in a small apartment.

And that would have been the end of the debate, if Caitlin herself hadn't gotten immensely flustered by that very unseemliness. Her discomfort at the idea, combined with Iris's apparent desire for Oliver to come to her father's house, sparked alive Barry's inner-prankster, who, in a flash, abandoned the idea of turning Oliver into an honorary West and devoted seemingly his entire existence to convincing Caitlin to let Oliver bunk with her, purely to annoy the doctor.

This continued for nearly a week, leaving both Oliver and Cisco at a loss for what to do while Barry and Caitlin spent the days bickering:

"They're like an old couple," said Cisco, shaking his head, as Barry once again went over the many merits of having the former Arrow as a roommate.

"You can say that again," quipped Oliver. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say this is some strange courting ritual."

"Please," gagged Cisco. "Barry? Caitlin? That's like the relationship _Titanic_ of social awkwardness."

"And like we're shining examples of socialization, right?"

"What?" Cisco questioned.

"Well, I hate to break it to you Cisco, but working nights for a vigilante isn't exactly normal," Oliver said, "and being a former vigilante, and current cripple, isn't exactly normal, either."

"Good point," Cisco said, looking like the truth had suddenly dawned on him.

"Alright! _FINE_!" Caitlin shouted at Barry by his suit at the other end of the Cortex, and then whirled around on Oliver and barked out a series of orders. "You! Queen! Tonight! My apartment! We're going! Don't make me regret this!" and with that outburst, she stomped out of the Cortex, looking more annoyed with Ollie than anyone else.

Once she was gone, Oliver raised up both his arms from the armrests on the wheelchair as if to ask what Barry had done, and felt distinctly ridiculous after realizing once more that one of those arms ended in a hook, but he was able to squash the feeling down:

"Why?" he asked. "Why is she mad at _me_ and not you?"

Barry just shrugged and grinned, sauntering off with the air of a man who had just won the lottery.

And that was how, after a week of arguing back-and-forth between Team Flash, Oliver ended up being wheeled into Caitlin's apartment by the woman herself. She pushed him into a modest, if extremely neat living room, and then moved off to the side, so he could see her easily:

"Um," she began nervously, "it's not much, but it's home. Sorry I don't have a bed for you, unless you'd prefer mine."

Oliver raised an eyebrow.

"Not how I meant it," Caitlin deadpanned, with a glare.

"Right," said Oliver, waving her off, "don't worry about it. I used to sleep on rocks, concrete, the jungle floor, and in caves. A couch is a bit like a luxury."

"Oh. The island, right. Well, enjoy then, I guess," Caitlin said, walking into the hallway and into a room that Oliver suspected was her bedroom.

Oliver nodded, and wheeled over to the couch. Having become quite the expert tracker and hunter over his years on Lian Yu, Oliver picked up on several things, very quickly. The apartment was very neat, sure, but also surprisingly dusty. Not to mention, a calendar pinned to a wall read March, even though it was May:

"You don't spend much time here, do you, Dr. Snow?" Oliver said, observing a photo-frame lying face down on a table stand next to her couch.

Caitlin snorted from behind a closed door. "Wow, stellar observation, Mr. Queen. What gave it away?"

He reached over with his good hand and flipped it right side up. It was a picture of her and Ronnie Raymond, one-half of the entity known as Firestorm, from a few years earlier, blissfully unaware of their future. The side of the frame was dented, and the glass was cracked. He looked over at the wall on the other side of the room, and found a small hole in it Caitlin hadn't bothered to try and cover up.

Oliver sighed. "It was... it was just a hunch," he said, flipping the picture back to its original position.

The anger and the sense of abandonment she must have felt; Oliver could feel it seep into every crack in the wall and into the furniture of the room. She did a good job of masking it, but it didn't take a genius to tell Caitlin was furious. She was furious at a man who was long gone, and Oliver had been down that path before: Hate made people unrecognizable; left unchecked, it turned them into monsters. What Caitlin needed, more than space, was rescue from herself.

Oliver leaned back in his chair, suddenly reminded that not all people who needed saving could be saved with a bow and a couple of arrows.

* * *

Oliver, for his part, spent the next few months keeping Caitlin preoccupied with himself to brood over her lost love. She had been helping him get back to his feet physically, it was only proper repayment for him to get her back to her feet mentally. It had been nearly two years; it was time to move on. But it would have been tactless to suggest that to her face, so he tried to be subtle about it. Instead of letting her sit alone in her bedroom, Oliver, with the help of Barry and Cisco, forced Caitlin to attempt at living a normal life.

That meant movies, shared breakfasts and dinners, and several terrible nights of karaoke with Barry and Cisco, and, occasionally visitors from Star City. Laurel had visited almost as soon as Thea had, and even Roy took time out of his busy schedule of being dead to visit Ollie. In the end, the only people who hadn't visited were the original members of Team Arrow: Felicity, and Diggle.

Oliver wouldn't admit it aloud, but it did hurt to know he had lost Diggle's friendship and had no idea where he stood with Felicity. Things in Central City were no less complex either, as Oliver wasn't sure where he stood with Caitlin, either. As they grew more comfortable with each other, Oliver began questioning what he was trying to do: in the end, Oliver wasn't sure if he was helping her get over Ronnie, or if he was trying to _replace_ him.

Barry and Cisco were supportive of Oliver's 'advances', as they called it, which annoyed the former billionaire to no end; he was just trying to help the doctor, not take advantage of her. Caitlin, however, gave off no indication that she thought anything untoward of his kindness, and if anything, was even harsher during their therapy sessions.

She was harsher for good reason, it seemed: Oliver quickly regained some of his lost strength over the next few weeks, under Caitlin's watchful eye, and in the coming months, he regained nearly all his faculties.

By July, he was on crutches. By August, he was walking unimpeded. By September, he resumed his former training regimen from when he was The Arrow. And in October, he was practically flying.

Caitlin allowed him to co-opt Barry's treadmill, which was meant to withstand speeds over Mach 2, so it was hardly taxed by what would be a brutal pace for any non-metahuman.

So, on the afternoon of October 12th, Oliver sprinted.

The prosthetic arm sliced through the air in front of him in tune with his right leg, and his undamaged arm in tune with his left. He thought about nothing but the quick, steady falls of his feet and the sound of his own breath, heavily distorted under his training mask. There was only goal: to go faster, until his body couldn't go any further. So he ran, unaware of Caitlin warning him to slow down, unaware of Barry and Cisco ecstatically waving him forward ever faster.

There was only sound, and speed, and impact, and the steel walls surrounding him.

He ran, and ran, and ran, until a flash of something came unbidden into his mind: a letter with a familiar seal. And suddenly, something felt off; one of his knees buckled under him. The sound and speed froze in the face of one, giant impact, and the feel of the cold steel ground as Oliver slid off the rapidly slowing treadmill.

 _That letter, again,_ he thought angrily, laying motionless on the floor as he regained his bearings.

There was a flurry of movement, the thud of boots, the soft whick of sneakers, and the click-click of rushing heels, and soon, Oliver found Barry, Caitlin, and Cisco huddled over him. Barry grinned maniacally, and Caitlin, rather predictably, looked worried:

"What on _earth_ were you thinking, going so fast!?" she nearly shouted at him.

Taking a few breaths to calm himself, he smiled placidly back at her. "What a surprise, Dr. Snow, you do care. How fast, Barry?" he asked, still staring at Caitlin.

"Maintained a pace of nearly 9 meters per second for almost ten minutes," Barry assessed, impressed, "that's _Olympian_ territory, Queen."

"It's not just Olympic-caliber, Ollie, it's practically superhuman," Cisco grinned with Barry.

"What does that mean? Why the distinction?" Oliver asked, sitting up.

"It means you physically shouldn't be able to run that fast for that long," answered Caitlin. "Muscle development isn't exactly my area of expertise, but there's simply no way your muscles should be able to carry you at that pace for an extended period of time. It takes most people who can do that, few that there are, several years worth of training on the strictest protein-building diets."

"Again," said Oliver, standing and shuffling over to the nearest chair; Caitlin and Barry followed, while Cisco stayed behind to make sure Oliver's fall hadn't broken the treadmill, "what does it _mean_?"

Caitlin shrugged. "I don't know. You've healed very quickly, your progress in physical therapy has been _remarkable_ , and you're here, now, doing something that should physically impossible for a man in your condition. The only people who are similar, are speedsters like Barry, though his is a much more severe case than yours, Ollie. If you'd been in Central City when the particle accelerator exploded, I'd say you were a Meta, but we know that's impossible. You may be quick, but you're not a Metahuman. I just don't know how to explain it."

"Well, that settles it," said Oliver to Barry, who rolled his eyes.

"Settles what?" Caitlin asked.

"Like I told you, Allen," smiled Oliver, "you don't use your superpowers, and I can beat you in a race any day."

"That's a stupid stipulation, Queen" Barry shot back, "it's like me challenging you to an archery contest, but you have to throw your arrows by hand."

"One," retorted Oliver, "it isn't at all like that. And, two, I'd _still_ win that archery contest."

Barry sighed dramatically. "What happened to Oliver, King of Brood? I think I much preferred him to Oliver, competitive douche."

"Ha-ha," Oliver laughed sarcastically, before turning to Caitlin: "So, am I done for today, or is there something else we have to go over?"

Caitlin brought a finger to her lips thoughtfully. "Honestly, I'd say you're pretty much done with me," she said.

"Oh, cheer up, Dr. Snow; I'll still be living on your couch," Oliver replied with a cocksure grin, holding the Doctor's gaze. She looked away hurriedly, and Barry smirked:

"Suave," he murmured, and grinned when he received a glare from the one-armed man.

"Oh, hush, both of you," the Doctor said. "I didn't mean it like that, Oliver, of course you're welcome to STAR Labs anytime you wish to come back. I'm just saying, after watching you break the 1000 meter world record, I think there's no longer any medical need for my intervention. So, you're welcome to go back to Star anytime you want."

Oliver stood up from the chair, and stretched his back. "I think I'll be staying in town. Until you get the key to the city, at the very least, Barry."

"Really?" said Barry, grinning. "Well, alright, then!"

Dr. Snow, too, smiled softly at Oliver. "It'll be good to have you for a little while longer."

Oliver nodded to both of them and saluted Cisco at the treadmill. "Well, I'm off. Got a few things to take care of," he bolted before any of three could ask him exactly what he had to do.

* * *

"The letter. Why?" Oliver asked, sitting down at a booth in a crowded, quaint Italian restaurant, and cursed his luck. If he had never seen this person again, it would have been to soon, but, as fate would have it, here they were, stuck together again.

Because of the letter. He had received it at Caitlin's apartment only a few days earlier, telling him to meet at this particular restaurant.

"You know exactly why, Mr. Queen," she replied.

"In case you haven't noticed, Waller, I'm not exactly fighting fit," Oliver shot back, which only caused Amanda Waller, leader of the clandestine governmental agency, A.R.G.U.S., to regard him with her usual mocking smirk:

"It's just your arm," she said, "everything else is in working order," she outright laughed at Ollie's furrowed brows. "Oh, please, Queen, you really didn't think I'd let you rot at STAR Labs if I didn't think Barry Allen, Caitlin Snow, and 'Cisco' Ramon couldn't bring The Arrow back from the dead, did you? If I didn't have faith in their abilities, you would have woken up in an A.R.G.U.S.-run hospital."

"Thanks, I guess," Oliver deadpanned, over the sound of clinking plates and glasses from the other guests.

"I'm just surprised that Mr. Ramon, smart as he is, didn't start working on something to help you with that arm problem of yours," Waller said, producing a simple, lacquered wood box from next to her, and handed it over to Ollie. "Compliments of Felicity Smoak and Lucius Fox."

"Fox? Doesn't he work for Wayne Enterprises?" Oliver said, reaching for the box.

"Yes, but I do believe he found out about your... accident when Ms. Smoak and her associated as Palmer Tech tried to enlist Wayne Enterprises' help in creating something to help you regain your lost limb. Apparently, Mr. Fox knew you as a child and was moved by her speech."

Oliver nodded. "My parents were friends with Thomas and Martha Wayne."

"And you were friends with Bruce Wayne," said Waller, with something akin to pity in her tone, strange and alien as it was coming from her, "before he and his parents were gunned down nineteen years ago."

"I met Mr. Fox a couple of times, yes," Oliver said; he didn't like talking about the Wayne family.

"And now he sends you a gift, with compliments. Go on, open it."

Oliver found a simple gold latch and unhooked it, opening the box and finding something quite special inside. Black and metallic, and undeniably in the shape of a human arm, Oliver inspected the prosthetic quizzically:

"It's bionic," explained Waller. "It behaves like a real arm; the fingers work like the real thing, and even has limited nerve activity, to give you a sense of pressure, and weight when you hold things. You might even be able to hold a bow again with this."

"And what do you want in return?"

Waller laughed, low and sinister. "Straight to business, I've always liked that about you, Queen. I don't want anything in return for the arm. As I said: compliments of Smoak and Fox. I'm here because I have something much more valuable to you than a robotic arm."

"And what's that?"

"I've heard you can't remember what happened to you. You can't remember why you ended up in a coma."

Oliver grit his teeth. Obviously, A.R.G.U.S. had bugged STAR Labs to listen in on his conversations with Caitlin, Barry, and Cisco. "Yes," he said, keeping his annoyance in check. "You'd be right. Do I have to go back to STAR Labs and do a clean sweep for listening devices?"

"You wouldn't find any," she replied airily. "Besides, if you agree to my terms, I'll stop spying on you. Scout's honor."

"For a spy, you're a pretty terrible liar, Amanda," Oliver said. "Fine. What are your terms?"

"Simple. I give you the identity of who attacked you, if you do what I ask."

Oliver thought about it. On one hand, it was Amanda Waller, and previous experience had taught him to never trust the words that came out of her mouth. On the other hand, he had lost nearly two years of his life, and Oliver didn't know why. And he wanted, no, _needed_ , to learn what happened.

"And what do you ask?"

"For you to come work for me," Waller said. "Temporarily," she amended, seeing the look on Oliver's face.

Oliver remained silent for a time, considering her offer before he spoke. "And what would you want me to do?"

"Two years ago, I had a unit, and an operation killed a fair few of them. I've gone around the world, brought in the best replacements I could find for them. All they need is a leader."

"And you want that leader to be me."

"No, Mr. Queen, I _know_ that leader has to be you."

Oliver opened his mouth, and Waller cut across him:

"Don't answer yet, Mr. Queen," she said, "take a day or two to think about it. Come back here when you're ready to work."

Amanda stood, and with her, every other patron in the restaurant stood as well, and all filed out the doors, quickly and orderly. Oliver remained alone at the booth, mulling over what he had just been told.

* * *

Author's Note: Next chapter should focus around the events of episode 1 of season 2 of The Flash, which should come out in a couple weeks, but if not, enjoy your Christmas holiday!

More housekeeping:

\- Oliver is sprinting around 20 miles per hour. Usain Bolt's fastest recorded time, if I remember correctly, is around 22 miles per hour, which makes Ollie pretty goddamn fast. And he can sustain it for quite some time, actually, which makes him liable to break at least a few world records. It might be a bit unrealistic, but this is a fic based on a TV Show based on a comic book superhero who has sniper-like precision and accuracy with a bow and arrow.

\- The Unit Waller is talking about, for people who have been living under a rock, is the Suicide Squad.

\- I originally wanted to devote an actual scene to Thea (and Laurel and Roy as well), but it would have been much too long and stray from the point. This fic, as of right now, doesn't feature many of the characters from the Arrow half of the Arrowverse, as it takes place mostly in Central City, and adding a long scene with Thea would have simply been much too long and detract from the point of the chapter. That being said, we may go back to Star City in the latter half of this fic, so we may see what's been going on in Star City later.

\- I don't know if I was clear about this in the chapter, but Oliver and Diggle are on bad terms, but not Ollie and Felicity. It's more awkwardness that prevents Felicity from coming to Central City to see Oliver than being mad at him, which I hope I got across by having her being the one to help make Ollie's bionic prosthetic. Plus, Lucius Fox sighting!

\- Bruce Wayne was killed along with his parents in the Park Row tragedy, to explain why Batman doesn't exist in the Arrowverse. I also thought it would be a cool addition for Oliver to be friends with Bruce, given they're both sons of billionaire parents.

\- Piggybacking off that, Oliver is mentioned to have been born in 1985, IIRC, which makes him about 32 in this fic. Bruce and his family were killed nineteen years before that, making Ollie around 13 when it happened. Bruce is intended to be around the same age, because I wanted there to be some time for their friendship to develop, rather than Bruce being killed as an eight or nine-year old, which is how old I've always assumed Bruce to be when his parents died.

\- Since this takes place in 2017, Barry receiving the key to Central City for saving it from the breach between worlds might be just a bit belated (and by just a bit, I mean a whole lot belated), so I'm just going to say they're giving it to him for the accumulation of saving people's asses every night as well as the whole black hole stuff. Just go with it.

Thanks for the read, leave a review if you can.


	3. To the Fallen Kings of Babylon

**Hail, Faust**

* * *

PART ONE: THERE WAS A WICKED MESSENGER

1\. To The Fallen Kings of Babylon

* * *

January 15, 2017

* * *

His bones always ached when winter came knocking; the fiercer the winter, the stronger the pain, and Gotham winters were always fierce.

It didn't help that the house was drafty, due in no small part to the enormity of its dimensions, and not a single one of its six hearths was lit. But Alfred Pennyworth supposed the house wasn't really cold, it just lost much of its warmth many, many years ago.

The pain came when he awoke, but Alfred soldiered through it as any one of his countrymen would: stiff upper lip, death before dishonor. The ache intensified as he stood up, and ambled toward the elegantly-carved wardrobe Bruce's great-grandfather had installed at the turn of the last century. Opening the leaf-handled doors, he found one of his many suits, painstakingly pressed to serve no one.

There never were many people to occupy this house, but it had seemed full of warmth and love, all the same.

That was so long ago. Six generations of Waynes this building had housed, and nearly two-hundred years of history was snuffed out by a single act of senseless violence. And this house was left to Alfred, a purgatory for his inability to properly care for the people he had pledged his life to.

Every day, he dressed, he climbed down the many steps of the curved staircase to the first floor, prepared himself a glass of tea, and waited. All he ever did was wait, hoping that one day, Bruce might come through that door, fully grown, with a life and a family of his own, happy and healthy.

But it was not to be; Bruce had the potential for greatness, but instead his life was snuffed at the tender age of thirteen, in Gotham's now-aptly-named Crime Alley. But there was hope in the waiting at that old home, hope, vain and beautiful:

Thomas, Martha, and Bruce Wayne may have been dead and buried with their ancestors in their family cemetery for nearly twenty, but Wayne Manor was Alfred's very own mausoleum, a ghost to wander about, fervently wishing to serve other ghosts.

Like every other day, after Alfred washed and dressed, brushed his thinning hair and trimmed his neat moustache, he stepped down the stairs, entered the cavernous kitchen, and prepared himself a cup of strong tea. He read the morning newspaper, dismayed at how crime grew ever more prevalent in the city proper, and waited, wasting away at that table.

But that day was not a day like any other.

For a sound came at the massive double doors at the entrance of the manor, a sound Alfred had long since forgotten: Wayne Manor had received a visitor. The idea of ignoring the call came and went quickly for Alfred; he had no desire to see whoever it was that came, but it had also been a very long time since Alfred had enjoyed the simple pleasure of opening a door for a visitor. And it was the nostalgia of that feeling, if nothing else, that drove Alfred Pennyworth to the door, and thus to a crossroads of fate.

When he opened the door, Alfred was surprised to see one man with a metal arm standing at the snowy steps, seemingly unconcerned by the winter wind and the bitter cold. It had been a very long time since he had seen that face, and it had grown, weathered, and even scarred some, but Alfred could place a face anywhere. He could never forget the blond-haired boy with twinkling blue eyes and a wicked little grin, now grown into a brown-haired man with scruffy beard and a prosthetic arm:

"Oliver Queen, as I live and breathe!" Alfred exclaimed, surprised to see someone from a chapter in his life he had long thought closed. "Come in, come in!" he ushered the man in and dusted some of the snow off the shoulders of his coat.

The other man grinned, happy to see Alfred had remembered him. "Master Pennyworth," Oliver greeted the old butler, in the same manner Alfred had referred to him so very long ago. "How are you?"

"I am well, Master Oliver, though I must ask, what brings you to Gotham? I've not seen you in years!"

Oliver's smile faded, and he looked a little guilty. "Decades, more like. I was amazed you even recognized me."

"I never forget a face, especially one that got Master Bruce into trouble as many times as you and young Thomas Merlyn did."

Oliver barked out a little laugh. "Still," he said, "I'm sorry I never came sooner."

Alfred dismissed the younger man's apology with a wave. "You've nothing to apologize for. As I see it, you've been very busy over the last several years."

"Have I?" Oliver questioned.

"Yes, Master Oliver, we do get television in Gotham, you know. And the story of a billionaire lost at sea with his son does tend to broadcast nationally," Alfred informed pithily. "I was sorry to hear about your father. I sent my condolences by way of letter."

"I don't know about my father, but I did receive your card for my mother. So, thank you for that."

"Think nothing of it," Alfred said, before he again regarded Oliver with a piercing look. "And you're avoiding the reason you've come here."

"Am I?"

"Master Oliver, you cannot hide the truth from me," the old butler said amicably, "come, tell me, why have you decided to visit? Business, or pleasure?"

Oliver breathed out before he spoke. "Business, mostly. Possibly pleasure, depending on how this conversation goes."

"Ah, that sounds suitably intriguing, and very mysterious. Do go on."

"I came to Gotham specifically to see you."

"And specifically why is that?"

"I'm considering permanently moving to Gotham, and I'd like to buy Wayne Manor."

Alfred blinked, dumbstruck.

* * *

Three Months Earlier

Central City

* * *

Oliver numbly made his way to the address Barry had texted him, Waller's proposal still weighing heavily on his mind. He looked down it his arm, flexing and watching with morbid interest as the black, metallic fingers curled into a fist at his prompting, almost as though it was the arm he had been born with. There had been notes from Fox, something about the arm picking up electrical signals from his brain and moving in accordance to it. Oliver didn't much care for the explanation; at his core he was a hunter, primal and animalistic. Hunters were remarkably simple people: if a method worked, it worked, and it was good.

He kept his head low as he walked through the Central City streets and kept moving quickly, only stopping when he came to a small bar on the outskirts of the metropolitan area. Oliver looked up at the small building and smirked, as he heard someone butchering a Bruce Springsteen song from inside. Karaoke. Of course.

Resigned to his fate, Oliver stepped inside the small bar and found a crowd of semi-drunk twenty-somethings staring at a mousy little man singing Rosalita off-key. Practically children. Quite suddenly, Oliver felt his age. Thirty-two. In a couple of years, he'd be middle-aged. And what did he have to show for it? A lifetime's worth of scars, and less than a second's worth of love.

He wondered briefly if his father ever meant this life for his son when he had told that stupid, selfish boy to right his wrongs.

But he didn't have long to contemplate the lies and wishes of Robert Queen, because Caitlin had caught his eye from across the room, at the bar, and waved him over to where she, Barry, and Cisco sat. Oliver shook the cobwebs from his head and ambled over to the trio. Barry kicked a chair from underneath table, so Ollie could sit, and Cisco passed him a beer, which the former emerald archer accepted gratefully.

"So," said Barry conversationally, "how'd your thing go?"

"My thing?" Oliver asked, still somewhat distracted.

"You know, the thing you practically raced from Star Labs to go to?" Cisco cut in for Barry.

"Oh, that thing," Oliver laughed, "it went fine."

Silence fell across the table, and with all three faces giving Ollie a quizzical look, he shrugged at the trio:

"What?" he asked.

"'It went fine'?" Caitlin repeated, deadpan, "that's what you're going to go with?"

"I mean..." the blond-haired man trailed off.

"No wonder you Star City types are always at each other's throats..." she said with an unladylike snort into her water. "Designated Driver, remember?" she said upon Oliver quizzical look at the drink, with a bit more venom than the archer thought necessary.

Ollie shook his head fondly at her, and turned back to Barry. "Man's gotta have his secrets, right? It's good for the mystique."

Barry looked at him bemusedly. "You know, you keep saying mystique. What the hell do you even mean by that?"

Oliver merely stared back.

"Right," said Barry, rolling his eyes, "thanks, Ollie."

The man who murdered Rosalita finally left the stage, only to be replaced by a woman who was equally bad at emulating Christine McVie, as he was Springsteen. A comfortable pause in the conversation left the four occupants of the table watching the performance as one might watch a car accident, with morbid curiosity. Without looking for it, Oliver reached out for his glass of beer, grasped it, and brought it to his mouth, only to have his concentration on the singer broken by Caitlin's gasp.

"Oliver..." she gaped, pointing at his beer.

"Wha...?" Oliver started, before looking down at his drink and realizing that he had grasped it with the prosthetic arm Waller had gifted him with. "Oh. Right."

His murmured statement sparked both Barry and Cisco's attention, respectively, and both of them stared at his arm with differing expressions. Barry was one of awe, and Cisco's was one of supreme disappointment:

" _Bionic arm_ ," he lamented quickly and loudly, "why didn't _I_ think of that!?" he plastered a palm over his face and leaned back in his chair, apparently in no hurry to change position.

"Where'd you get it from?" Barry questioned, leaning in to get a better look at the arm. Caitlin quickly pulled back the sleeve of Oliver's jacket to better inspect the prosthetic, and seemingly marveled at the craftsmanship.

"Would you believe I got from a yard sale?"

Barry replied with a deadpan glare.

"It's from an old friend," Oliver said quickly. "Well, more like an acquaintance."

"Who on _earth_ could make something like this?" Caitlin asked, playing with the fingers and gasping when the metal twitched like flesh-and-blood digits. "Oh my God! Was that _nerve_ activity?" she gushed, now pouncing on his hand and clasping it within hers, continuing to poke and prod at it.

"Yeah, I guess."

The brunette abruptly stopped dead. "Uh... so does this mean you can feel this?" she asked, staring at their conjoined hands.

"Not like I would my other hand, but I can definitely feel you holding it," Oliver replied, at which Caitlin immediately dropped the prosthetic and withdrew, leaving Oliver entirely dumbfounded at her behavior. "So, who was it that made it?" she asked, facing away from him and studiously avoiding his gaze.

 _Strange_ , thought Oliver before replying:

"Lucius Fox, over at Wayne Enterprises Applied Sciences division."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Cisco cut in, finally over his lamentations. "Lucius Fox. As in _the_ Lucius Fox? From Gotham?"

"That would be the one," Ollie quipped. "You know him?"

" _Know him_? Of course I don't _know him_! I know _of_ him, though. Guy's a goddamn rockstar!"

"I think that means Cisco admires the guy," Barry leaned in to clarify to Oliver, who nodded conspiratorially.

Cisco leaned in. "But I have a question for _you_ , Oliver."

Ollie blinked. "Shoot," he replied.

"How do _you_ know Lucius Fox?"

"My father knew Thomas Wayne. And I was friends with his son..."

"Bruce," both Ollie and Barry said simultaneously, causing the former Arrow to give the current Flash a quizzical look:

"Oh, I, uh... it was one of the cases I followed as a kid. Unsolved murder of three of Gotham's wealthiest? It was like something out of a movie," Barry shrugged sheepishly.

"Jesus," remarked Cisco, "you were friends with Bruce Wayne?"

"Yeah," answered Oliver.

"And Tommy Merlyn?"

"Yeah, best friends, actually."

"Ship-wrecked on an island for five years."

"Yeah," Oliver said. Well it wasn't a lie, just not the whole truth.

"Coma for nearly two."

"Yup."

"God, is there anything in your life that _doesn't_ suck?"

"Well, I was a billionaire," pointed out Oliver.

Cisco snorted. "'Was' being the operative word, Queen."

Oliver shrugged as if to say 'win some, lose some', before getting back on topic: "Either way, apparently Felicity used her new position at Palmer Tech to make overtures to Wayne Tech and help build this arm."

"Aw, that was nice of her," said Barry. "You send a thank you note?"

Barry had asked an innocuous question, but it seemed to Oliver as though something else entirely was being asked of him, considering Barry and Cisco were eyeing him like two scientists observing and predicting a lab rat's movements, and even Caitlin was gazing at him very intently.

"Not yet," said Oliver bemusedly, "it's only been around an hour or two."

The woman singing Fleetwood Mac finished up her crooning, giving way to another man who sang Life on Mars, and actually wasn't half-bad.

"Oh no," said Cisco.

"What?" asked Caitlin.

"Having flashbacks to the first time Thea visited us: Oliver Queen listens to Bowie, a love story."

Caitlin giggled, Barry guffawed, and Oliver remained motionless:

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked quickly, alarmed.

Cisco smirked. "Don't play coy, O-li-ver, Thea told us everything, even brought your collection of Bowie's _entire_ discography in on _vinyl_ for us to play to you while you were out. Like, honestly, who even _owns_ a record player anymore? I didn't know you were such a _hipster_."

Ollie couldn't fight the flush that crept up his neck. Barry, Caitlin, and Cisco all laughed, leaving Ollie to briefly wonder if it wouldn't have been better had he actually woken up in that ARGUS hospital Waller mentioned, instead of STAR Labs.

* * *

Two hours later, after witnessing Barry's surprisingly good singing voice, Oliver crammed himself into Caitlin's tiny, powder blue Fiat as they puttered their way back to her apartment. It was a mostly silent affair, with Caitlin keeping her eyes on the road and Ollie brooding to himself.

Eventually, however, this silence, like all silences, was broken:

"What is it?" Caitlin asked: short, sweet, and admirably direct, as Caitlin always was.

"What's what?" Oliver replied with his own question: distracting, deflecting, and maddeningly vague, as Oliver had a reputation for being.

"You clearly have something on your mind," she answered, as the little Fiat that could slowed to a halt at a stoplight.

"Do I?"

Caitlin glared at him.

Oliver couldn't help but give the doctor a cheeky little grin. "Sorry, Dr. Snow," he said, using her formal title, as he usually did when playfully mocking the brunette, "just a few things on my mind."

"Like what?"

Oliver sighed dramatically. "That was me trying, as politely as possible, to get you off my back."

If he was going to talk about this with anyone, it would be on his own terms, with him directing the flow of the conversation, not the other way around:

"Well," said Caitlin, "unlucky for you, I don't get off easily."

Too late, Caitlin had realized her mistake. The Arrow grinned, shark-like; this was going to be far too easy.

"God, I hate you," Caitlin growled before Ollie could get a jab in.

"That's what everyone says," he replied jauntily, "in the end, all of you love me. I'm like Cleopatra, and you're all... the rest of those Greeks."

"Romans."

"What's the difference?" Oliver shot back. "It's the salmon ladder, isn't it?"

"What?" Caitlin asked, cheeks flushed.

"That's why. It's the salmon ladder. Don't think I don't know everyone stares."

"I-I've never seen you on the salmon ladder," she stuttered back, before regaining some of her poise. "But I have seen you crawl on the floor like an infant."

"You wound me, Dr. Snow," Oliver said. "But, hey, who knows? Maybe now that I've got this arm, we can have a salmon ladder installed at STAR Labs."

Caitlin audibly gulped as he leaned in, leaving even less breathing room in the already-cramped car.

"I'll be sure to give you a good view," he finished flirtatiously.

The good doctor didn't speak to him for the rest of the ride, too embarrassed to continue. It was much too easy, basically taken word for word from 'How to effectively avoid a difficult confrontation with a woman 101', a handbook for rake-hells. Oliver only lamented not using the same tactic on Felicity more often when he had been operating in Star City. It would have certainly saved him a lot of trouble in the end.

Half an hour later, they sat comfortably in Caitlin's living room, Oliver sprawled out on the couch watching basketball, whilst Caitlin curled up in her designated armchair with a veritable textbook in her arms and her nose buried in it. Oliver had long since learned it wise to avoid questioning Caitlin's particular choice in literature, but it really was a microcosm of her life, in Ollie's opinion: to him, there was nothing more tragic than a twenty-something woman obsessively reading about molecular genetics on a Friday night.

"Stop," she said suddenly, without looking up from the book.

"Huh?" Oliver asked, intelligently.

"I can feel you judging me from here; stop it."

"I wasn't-"

"Yes, you were."

Oliver exhaled through his nose. The corners of Caitlin's mouth quirked upward in response, something Oliver was momentarily mesmerized by. She had a nice smile, on the off-chance she actually smiled.

"You know, Barry's receiving the key to the city on Sunday, right?" Caitlin asked suddenly, as Oliver looked to the calendar, making mental note of the date:

"Yeah, I remember."

"Are you going to be there?"

"Sure. Am I not supposed to go?"

Caitlin looked up with an empathetic expression. "It's, well, I know Star City never quite gave you the recognition you deserved. I wasn't sure that, with the way our city is treating Barry..."

"You want to know if I'm jealous," Oliver drawled.

Slowly, Caitlin nodded.

"I'd be lying if I didn't say it stings a bit," he started, "but I'm used to it. Barry's this, this shining light of Central City; he can lead people. With hope. The Arrow was never meant to do that."

"And what was The Arrow meant to do?"

"To make people _fear_ again."

"Fear?" Caitlin repeated.

"Well, the twentieth century eliminated a lot of our superstitions about the world. People don't believe in werewolves and vampires anymore, and people don't fear demons, because they're all in story books, right? The Arrow was that, a new vampire, someone who made the strong fear the night. Someone who brought uncompromising justice, who maimed and killed those who harmed others, and he'd do it without mercy, without pity."

"Why?" the doctor asked. "Why would you do that to yourself?"

"Because you're as powerless as I am, your only advantage is ruthlessness. So I'm not jealous, because I never set out to be a hero." Oliver said with a smile, as Caitlin cocked her head questioningly.

"And what about now?"

"What _about_ now?" Oliver repeated.

"You're relatively healed, and you've got that arm. The Arrow could return."

Oliver shook his head. "I don't think so; the world needs more people like Barry, and a lot less like me."

"So, that's it? You're going to give up?"

"Not exactly, there's still one thing I have to do. Find the people who put me in a coma."

Caitlin suddenly sat up straight from her previously relaxed position. "You remember what happened?"

"No, it's all still fuzzy. Just images and shadows. But someone reliable has offered me information, and I've been wondering whether I should take it."

"Have you? It sounds to me like you've already decided."

Oliver sighed and closed his eyes, trying to remember what had happened to him. At first there was nothing, then movement, and claws, and shadows... then fire, delicate fire. The next thing he knew, he woke in a familiar room, with a pretty brunette hunched over him, asking him his name. He didn't know what had, or how it had, happened, but he knew one thing: it made him angry. Very, very angry.

Maybe Caitlin was right; he had already chosen his path.

"Yeah," he agreed aloud, "I think you're right about that."

"So, The Arrow will bring them to justice?" Caitlin asked, somewhat hopefully. Oliver's hesitation was telling:

"Who said this was about justice?" he asked eventually, a deadly serious look in his eyes.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Late as hell, I know. I suck. Next chapter, Barry receives the key to the city and all the accolades, while Oliver descends into the shadows and sets out on the war path.

Housekeeping:

\- This chapter had been partially written before David Bowie's death in January, so the whole vinyl hipster thing was a lot funnier back then. Because I don't want to rewrite it, David Bowie is still alive in this universe, flying on magic tigers and creating thunderbolt songs.

Thanks for the read.


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